Secret Memories

by J. S. Donovan

  Her desk sat on the right side of the room. It had a rich mahogany top with a MacBook Pro, marble slab with two vertical writing pens jutting from it, a small sculpture of the globe, and a toy-sized horse-riding jockey a client bought her on it. Beyond the leather desk chair was a bookshelf with three vertical glass panes, each enclosing three shelves that held various law books, textbooks, survival manuals, and her dead father’s crime novels. Hanging on the wall above the bookshelves was Angela’s Bachelors of Criminal Science and Ph.D. in Criminology. She’d tried law enforcement after graduate school. It wasn’t her cup of tea. She needed to be in the field but wanted to be her own boss. Being a cop meant too many restrictions, so she settled for the middle ground: private investigating. Her specialty was finding missing people and items. Your husband ran away with the ditz from the office, you’d call Angela to track them down, even if that meant going all the way to Kansas, which she had to do once. In terms of finding lost items, Angela was usually hired to find stolen goods and return them to their owner for an extra fee.

  Angela moved into the room and closed the door. Opposite of the desk were a few nice waiting chairs and a lamp stand. Photographs of mountain vistas and calming streams bordered a massive printout of the Knoxville city map pinned on the wall above the seats. It gave Angela something to look at when she sat at her desk.

  With an exasperated sigh, Angela plopped down on her leather chair. She rested her hands on her flat stomach and swiveled back and forth a few times. Her festive air freshener filled the room with a pine-smelling aroma. Angela opened up the bottom drawer and pulled out a case file. Most investigators liked putting their information on the computer, which Angela did, but she always liked having a physical copy. She was just old school like that.

  She opened the folder and leafed through the photos of the missing child.

  Angela rubbed her brow.

  There was a knock at the door. A woman’s silhouette stood behind the window’s pebbled glass. Angela checked the time. It was past 10pm. The office was closed three hours ago. Taking a breath, Angela forced herself from the seat she had just gotten comfortable in. The woman knocked again, but with more urgency.

  Angela opened the door about two feet. The woman standing before her was in her fifties. She had short grey hair cut into a pixie cut and satin grey eyes. She was wearing a heavy winter jacket. Studded silver earrings hung on the lobes of ears that were red from the cold along like her button nose. Her eyes were bloodshot and glossy. Her thin lips quivered ever so slightly.

  “I’m sorry. We’re closed for the evening,” Angela said.

  “It’s an emergency,” the woman said quietly.

  Angela deadpanned. “Then call the police. I mainly deal with civil affairs, and --”

  “They won’t help me,” the woman interrupted Angela. Her urgency gave the private investigator pause. Angela scrutinized the woman for a moment. Her tears, the way she nervously fidgeted with hands, and her jumpiness all pointed to signs of desperation. Angela took a step back and opened the door for her.

  With hesitation, the woman stepped inside and tucked her short hair farther behind her ear. She glanced around the office like a shy child on her first day of school. Angela gestured to the chair facing the desk. “Have a seat.”

  With tiny steps, the woman walked that way but didn’t sit down until Angela had. The woman rested her black snakeskin handbag on her lap and clenched the handle tightly.

  “Nice place,” she said, trying to get a conversation going.

  Angela extended a hand across the desk. “I’m Angela Rhymer.”

  “Rosemary Sylvain,” the woman replied. She had gloved hands that were soft but cold.

  “How can I help you this evening, Rosemary?” Angela asked as she pulled out a legal pad and one of the pens jutting vertically from the marble slab.

  Rosemary unzipped her purse and removed a high school photograph. She put it on the desk gently as if it were something of great value and slid it to Angela with two fingers. Angela studied the teenage girl in the photograph. She had long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a joyful smile.

  “Who is she?” Angela asked

  “Iris,” Rosemary replied, her eyes on the picture. “My daughter.”

  Angela’s tongue tapped her molar as she eyed the photo. The girl and her mother didn’t share many similarities. “She a junior or senior?”

  “Neither,” Rosemary sniffled.

  Angela grabbed a fresh tissue box out of the bottom drawer of her desk and handed it off to the woman. She pulled one of the tissues out and blew her nose into it. When she finished, she held the crumpled tissue in a ball in her hand. “She graduated high school seven months ago.”

  “I see,” Angela replied.

  Rosemary pulled out another photograph from her purse. This one was much larger and had been folded and unfolded multiple times, leaving behind white creases on the image. It showed the same girl, only now her hair was cut into a short pixie cut and she was standing outside of a drab tenement building vandalized with graffiti. She wore fishnet stockings, a miniskirt, and a heavy fur coat. Angela recognized the place. It was a cesspit of druggies and homeless that the police didn’t even bother with.

  Angela peered over the photo at Rosemary. “When was this taken?”

  “A day ago,” the woman admitted.

  “Who took this photo?”

  “Another investigator,” Rosemary said distastefully.

  That raised a red flag for Angela. Anyone who moved through investigators like a revolving door was usually very controlling and particular about what they wanted. Many times, clients like that were manipulative and found ways to weasel out of making payments. Their preferred method was using the investigator’s own words against them. Angela had to be very mindful of the promises she’d make.

  “The last investigator not do it for you?” Angela asked casually.

  “His name’s Frankford. Frank Frankford, and didn’t help my daughter. He only took photos of her. Granted, that was his job, but in a situation as dire as this, I needed someone who would take initiative. Look at my sweet baby. Look what they’ve done to her.”

  “Who is they?” Angela asked.

  Rosemary shrugged. Her whole body seemed to deflate with hopelessness. “I don’t know. Whatever monsters turned my perfect little girl into this harlot.”

  “If Iris is involved with prostitution, you can call the police,” Angela suggested.

  “I tried, but they won’t help.” Rosemary looked directly into Angela’s eyes. “I need someone who can bring her home. Tonight.”

  Angela leaned back in her seat. She glanced at the time again. “Even if I could, who says that your daughter will want to come with me?”

  “It’s not about her wants.” Rosemary said, raising her voice. “It’s about what she needs.” She rose from her chair and slammed her hand on the desk. “This is my daughter. My baby girl. I won’t abandon her.”

  “Calm down,” Angela said, not outwardly pleased by the woman’s dramatic outburst. “What you’re asking about, to take someone against her will, that’s not something I do. Now, I can track her and I can talk to her tomorrow if that will help.”

  “It needs to be tonight,” Rosemary said with determination. “Please, investigator. I’ll pay double whatever your standard rate is.”

  Angela sighed.

  Rosemary fished around her purse and pulled out a wad of cash that made Angela’s eyes go wide. It didn’t matter where you lived, carrying around that kind of money was dangerous and stupid. With trembling hands, Rosemary extended the money roll to Angela like an offering to some god.

  “It’s all I have,” Rosemary begged softly. “Please.”

  Angela eyed the money. There was at least six grand there. That would take care of the crappy lock on the door, help her get rid of the rust spots on her car, and add some cushion to her savings.

  “I can’t take that,” Angela said.

  “Oh,” Ros
emary said, leaving the money on the desk between them. “What else can I give you?”

  Angela saw the hurt in the woman’s eyes. She felt her chest tighten. She glanced down at the two juxtaposing pictures of Iris. She was such a sweet-looking girl. Angela regretted her next words. “All right.”

  “You’ll do it?” Rosemary said, her hope returning.

  “I’ll bill you for five hours.” Angela said. “$750 right now will make it square, but if the girl refuses to come along, there’s nothing I can do. Understand?”

  “Of course,” Rosemary said, busy counting out the bills from the money wad. She handed the $750 over. Angela put it in her desk and pointed at the pictures of Iris. “Do you mind if I keep these?”

  “No. Go right ahead,” Rosemary said, finding it hard to conceal her excitement. “You don’t know how much this means to me, Ms. Rhymer.”

  “Do you have the address for the tenement house?” Angela asked, wanting to make sure it was the same one she remembered.

  Rosemary nodded. She jotted down the address on Angela’s legal pad. While she had the pen, Angela had Rosemary fill out an information form. Name, birthday, address, phone number, and anything that might help Angela reach her. Rosemary did as she was asked. When they finished, Angela put the form in her desk and led the woman to the door.

  “You’re really making a difference,” Rosemary said gratefully.

  We’ll see. Angela thought. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  Angela watched the woman hurry down the hallway. Not wanting to make this an all-night affair, Angela locked her office door, put on her winter gloves, and headed down to her car. The Charger rumbled to life and fishtailed on the black ice as Angela sped down the street.

  Knoxville was quiet this winter evening. Snow flurries drifted aimlessly in the sky. Skyscrapers jutted toward the inky black vault above. Angela opened and closed her gloved hands to keep her circulation going. Weighing 117 pounds, the cold seemed to hit her harder than most, and since she was a light eater, that also dropped her body temperature. Some had compared her icy touch to that of death. Angela was not fond of that analogy.

  The abandoned tenement building came into view. It was eight stories tall and made of bleak concrete. Graffiti covered the first two floors. Its windows were endlessly dark. There were no cars in the lot.

  Angela parked by the curbside. She took out her stun gun from the glove box. She pressed the button, watching the white light arc between the two metal forks. It worked. Good. She clipped it to her belt and got out.

  A wave of cutting wind sent her hair and scarf billowing. Angela scanned the area, seeing if there were ladies of the night. Vacant. The cold must’ve kept them away. She’d need to find a witness some other way.

  She headed inside and clicked on her flashlight. The place smelled like weed and feces. Graffiti tagged the interior walls. Distant laughter echoed off through the dark, wide corridor. Homeless men gathered around a fire-filled trashcan. More hobos slept against walls of the room. Some of them were covered in cardboard while others had a mound of blankets. Angela stopped at the first one she saw: a woman with wide, crazy eyes and hair sprouting from her chin mole. Covered with blankets, she shuddered at Angela’s approach and hid her face from the flashlight’s beam.

  Angela pulled out the photographs of Iris. “I’m looking for this girl. She was here yesterday. Have you seen her?”

  The crazy women nodded, her eyes darting from side to side wildly. She pulled her hand out from under the cover and pointed her bony fingers at the staircase.

  “What floor?” Angela asked.

  The crazy woman showed four shaking fingers.

  Angela nodded. “Was she alone?”

  The crazy woman nodded.

  “Is she alone?”

  The crazy woman shook her head.

  “Man or woman.”

  The crazy woman shrugged.

  “How can you not tell?”

  The crazy woman shrugged again.

  Angela gave her a twenty and started up the stairs of the freezing tenement building.

  The place made a rest stop bathroom look like the Ritz Carlton. There was more trash, more rats, and more crackheads the farther Angela ascended. Touching the rusty railing on the staircase was equivalent to sticking your palm against a used heroine needle. Angela kept her hands in her pockets, her jacket zipped up and her eyes alert. The place was dark and gloomy. She kept her flashlight off, not wanting to draw some unsavory types to her location. Being a lone woman in a place like this was a very foolish thing.

  She reached the fourth floor. It seemed high enough in the abandoned building that squatters tended to avoid it. It was nearly pitch black apart from the slither of flickering light that leaked out from under the fifth door on her right. With slow, cautious steps, Angela approached. The other apartment doors were closed as well. Angela stayed mindful of them. She didn’t want to get flanked. Not that she was expecting adversity, but something about this place put Angela on edge. It was more than just being on the bad side of town, it was like something was oppressing the atmosphere. Every investigator faced a moment where they either trusted those gut feelings or relied solely on the facts. Angela tried her best to balance reason and instinct, but tended to lean on the side of feeling. Nevertheless, she moved closer to the fifth door on the right.

  She hunched over and tried to peer through the keyhole. She saw the corner of an uncovered mattress laid out on the dusty floor. She knocked, keeping her other hand on her stun gun.

  A few seconds later, Angela hammered her fist on the door. “Iris? Are you in there?”

  No reply.

  Time for plan B.

  Angela removed her auto-lock picker from her coat pocket but stopped herself. Perhaps she should see if it was unlocked before she tried picking it. She grabbed the doorknob with her gloved hand and gave it a twist. Unlocked. Angela felt her skin crawl. Unlocked doors in a place like this were never a good sign. It either meant Iris was stupid, or…

  Angela opened the door. It creaked loudly as it slowly revealed the apartment. There was no furniture apart from a dresser without drawers and the mattress on the floor. Lying facedown on the mattress was a short woman with fishnet stockings, a short skirt, and a heavy winter jacket. There was a portable lantern hanging from a metal hook on the ceiling. The bulb inside of the lantern flickered, and each time the light cut out, Angela saw the shadow standing in the corner of the room. It didn’t have eyes, but it watched her. Angela took a step inside. Fat, black cockroaches scuttled between her feet and vanished into the darkness of the hallway.

  She neared the girl. “Iris?”

  The blinking light distorted her vision. It clicked softly and was the only sound apart from Angela’s breathing. She took a knee beside Iris, careful not to touch anything. She looked at the girl’s face, half-pressed on the mattress. Her eyes were open under heavy eyelids. The mascara tear stained her pale cheeks. Her plump, glossy lips were partly open. Purple bruises the shape of someone’s hands closed around the pretty girl’s neck. She wasn’t breathing.

  Angela leaned back and exhaled as lethargy struck her, quick as a bullet. She checked for a pulse to clear any doubt, though she knew that the girl was dead. As she fished out her cellphone, she saw something that gave her pause. The back of Iris’s jacket had been cut from the neck down to the center of her jacket. Carefully, Angela peeled back the clothing flaps of both the jacket and shirt to reveal the girl’s creamy white skin beneath. Just below the right shoulder and next to a mole was a patch of old scarred flesh that took the shape of a butterfly.

  Angela backed away from the day-old cadaver swiftly, her heart suddenly racing. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the dingy apartment blew away into a dark void, and a fraction of a second later, Angela was in her parents’ cozy and warmly-lit cabin. The smell of pine sap wafted out from the toppled Christmas tree. Kelly and Thomas Rhymer were lying motionless on the hardwood. Angela was facedown on the floor
with them. Her wrists were bound. Her muscles tensed up at the blade’s ice-cold touch as it slowly and methodically cut open the back of her sweater. She bit into the belt that had been jammed into her mouth and tasted the dry leather on the tip of her tongue. Tears rolled down her cheek.

  “There, there, child,” a voice said. Male? Female? Angela couldn’t recall.

  The point of the blade pressed down against her flesh. She squirmed and screamed through her teeth biting the belt, but the stranger held her in place as he carved a butterfly into the back of her right shoulder. Just like Iris’s.

  Chapter Three

  The Wanderer

  The memory ended, and Angela was back with the dead body. She trembled. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and blinked the tears from her eyes. For the first time in twenty-eight-years, she remembered what happened that fateful winter night. At least, a fraction of what happened.

  Going against any morals she had, she frisked Iris, hoping to find something, anything, that would put her on the killer’s trail. She only found a wrinkled cigarette packet. It was empty. Angela put it back. What are you doing? she asked herself as she lifted one side of Iris’s body, seeing if there was anything beneath her. Nothing. Angela put the body back down. She checked the girl’s mouth. Empty. She glanced around the empty apartment that consisted of a walk-in kitchen, one bedroom, and one bathroom. She dialed the police as she started toward the bedroom.

  “Knoxville Police. This is Macy on a recorded line,” the operator said.

  Angela moved cautiously through the hall, holding the phone against her ear. “I’d like to report a body.”

  “What is your location?” the operator asked.

  Angela turned the doorknob and moved into the bedroom that only had a rusted bed frame. She gave the operator the address.

  “And your name?” the operator asked.

  “Angela Rhymer,” Angela said as she scanned the room. Nothing caught her eye. She moved into the bathroom. Black mold crawled out of the sink, bathtub drain, and the dry toilet. She glanced at the mirror, seeing the terror on her own face.